“Not for long,” Etu grumbled, her thin lips narrowing further. “My night visions are never wrong. He will rise soon and I see nothing but trouble coming.”
Siara hadn’t told the old medicine woman about yesterday, when the stranger had woken in a state of confusion and grabbed her arm in a painful grip. It was the first time he had become fully conscious, his eyes wide and wild. Fascinating eyes. As clear and blue as the sky above.
She’d been startled, but not afraid, sensing his fear and need for reassurance. She could only imagine his confusion and delirium. For several days, he had fought the fever while she had tended to the wound on his right thigh. It had taken a gentle touch to his face before he had once again calmed and drifted off into a deep sleep.
The risk she was taking by bringing him here was tremendous. Yet when she had found the wounded, motionless man fighting for his life, she hadn’t been able to leave him or turn him over to their clan mother, who would have simply deferred to the chief. Siara had recognized the man’s bright red uniform and knew he fought for the other side. Since her tribe now sided with the settlers, they wouldn’t care if the wounded man lived or died.
Especially not her betrothed.
Akando had become more ruthless since he’d been appointed the new chief warrior of his clan, the Wolf clan. From what she’d seen of his treatment of captured soldiers, she couldn’t possibly trust him with this vulnerable life.
Though Siara had a deep appreciation for all those who breathed, she wasn’t ignorant to the ways of the Europeans. They took what they wanted with no regard for those before them. They staked claim on people, land, and things that did not belong to them. They ruthlessly killed and plundered without care or concern. Some of them were not to be trusted.
Yet that did not stop her from helping this man.
She was grateful Etu had agreed to keep her secret about the shrouded campsite they’d constructed around the fallen soldier. The crudely built shelter was supported against a large tree with low hanging branches, keeping it safely hidden. It was wide enough to fit three grown men, giving her and Etu enough room to move. Their secret camp was also a good distance away from their village, and she didn’t have to worry about anyone finding them. Not that anyone would venture this far from the village. Many were afraid to wander into these forsaken grounds.
This part of their land had been condemned by the tribe’s council members for the many souls that had been lost along its border since the start of the fight between the whites. Yet it was a night vision that had propelled her to come here that fateful day. Her visions were never as consistent as Etu’s, and often meant nothing, but she’d come anyway, to pray for the lost souls here. That’s when she’d found him, barely clinging to life. Luckily, Etu hadn’t been afraid. She had believed they should bury the wounded man, to keep his spirit from living among them, but when he continued to live on through the night, Siara had been filled with hope. She hadn’t expected Etu to remain helping her this long, but was extremely grateful for it. With all her gray-haired wisdom, Etu had taught her a lot, but Siara’s skill for tending the sick was no match for the experienced healer.
Siara checked the dressing around the man’s wound and was pleased to find it still healing nicely. It would scar—there was nothing she could do to prevent that—but it would be no worse than the jagged, puckered mark just below his left rib cage. He had many other faint scars, but none as bad as that one. Though his lean, well-muscled body was riddled with old and new marks, he radiated with life and she was determined to sustain it.
As she reset the dressing on his leg, her gaze unconsciously slid over to the juncture of his thighs and lingered there. While the fever had raged in him, she and Etu had taken turns wiping him down and keeping him cool. Though she had tried to be discreet, she had gotten more than a glimpse of his male member and had been fascinated. He was built like a stallion, long and thick. Even now, it was outlined by the single sheet.
Blushing, she glanced away.
She’d seen other men nude during her care of the sick and wounded, but his body was the most magnificent. He was fair, but not as pale as some of the other Europeans she’d come across. The hair on his head and along his jaw was the color of dried grass. Those sprinkled on his chest, arms, and legs were a shade darker. His eyebrows were thick and framed his strong, broad face. A handsome, fascinating face.
Everything about him fascinated her.
“Siara, we cannot keep tending to him much longer,” Etu said as she brought over the cup of broth. “More of our men continue to arrive wounded and are more in need of our care. I need to focus my efforts on helping them. Not this one pale face.”
“I understand, Etu,” Siara said dutifully, taking her place behind his head and gently propping it on her lap. The older woman had been a sort of guardian to her since she’d lost her parents some time ago, and she respected Etu like a grandmother. “I also appreciate your help in this, but I can’t give up on him now. Not until he can build his strength to leave us on his own.”
How can I abandon him now when he is nearly well?
Grumbling, Etu shook her head, her hunched shoulders stooping further in resignation. Siara paid her no mind as she gently jostled the man awake. He groaned. When his eyes flickered and partly opened, she reached for the cup and tilted it to his lips.
“Drink,” Siara whispered softly in English. She slowly and steadily poured the warm liquid into his mouth. “He’s getting stronger every day,” she said to Etu. That left her conflicted. Though she was delighted to know he was getting better, the thought of him leaving here filled her with a sadness she couldn’t place or make sense of. It would be better for her and safer for him if he got well enough to leave their land soon. Yet for the past several days she had nursed him, had nurtured him back to health, and had come to care deeply for him and his well-being—more than she should have.
After he’d taken enough sips to satisfy her, she laid down the cup and ran her fingers over his brows and temples. She enjoyed touching him. With each passing moment, his body hummed with life and strength.
“He will be well soon,” she murmured. “I can feel it.”
“You will also feel Akando’s firm hand on your backside when he finds out about this,” Etu retorted.
Siara ignored her and began humming a song meant to comfort and soothe her patient to sleep.
Etu clucked her tongue. “You are threading fire, girl.”
Siara glanced up at the old woman with a soft smile. “Everything will be fine, Etu. You will see.” She returned her attention to the man and continued running her fingertips along his brows, watching his features soften into sleep.
There was a peace there, where there hadn’t been before. He was getting better and that was all she could hope for.
****
The burning throb on his leg pulled him from his deep slumber.
Sergeant James Blake steeled himself against the stabbing pain and slowly took in the sounds around him. He was still alive. A miracle to say the least. The vague sounds of a cannon blast and the faint stench of smoke were still very tangible to him. His body ached still and his leg hurt like hell, but he was grateful to be alive.
It was morning now. The loud chirping of the early birds and the smell of fresh dew in the air told him that much. He kept his eyes closed, not moving a muscle. The soft voice that had spoken hours earlier was near. She spoke in a language he didn’t understand, but it was her.
His dream woman.
His angel.
No, not an angel. Just a woman. A beautiful woman…but only a woman. He had finally managed to open his eyes yesterday—or had it been the day before? He couldn’t remember. Time swirled in his mind, and he lost what little memory he remembered of the ambush that had sent him flying from his horse.
What he did remember was sun-kissed brown skin and large, chestnut-colored eyes.
James continued to lie still when she came near him again. She was alone this time. Whoever it was she had spoken to had left her behind. The woman knelt beside him and briefly placed a warm hand on his cheek. Her light touch on his face and body was soothing—and jarring.
James opened his eyes to slits, peering down at her bent head as she lifted the linen from his naked body. She removed the bandage from his thigh, exposing the wound. He gritted his teeth against the pain of the cool air scraping against his fiery flesh. She applied a slippery salve to the injury, which began to numb the area and chase away the pain. Her movements were deft and unhurried. In the soft morning light, he made out her dark, delicate features. Her long, wavy black hair was braided in two large plaits, though the long strands were pulled to one side of her head, exposing the oak-brown skin of her smooth neck. A slender, elegant neck. One made for kissing.
He wanted to touch her. To pull her over him and nuzzle the tender spot. But he could do neither. His member was willing but his body was beyond weary.
Her slender frame was hidden by her native overdress and skirt, but her perched position left enough of her leg exposed for him to formulate his own thoughts of their softness. He lowered his gaze until he caught sight of the flint knife tied to the sash at her waist. The blade served as a rude reminder that he was defenseless and completely at her mercy.
He didn’t like that. In a time of war, that was a dangerous position to be in—something he had learned the hard way and the scar below his ribs was the result of that lesson.
She redressed his wound then replaced the blanket over his exposed body. With fluid grace, she rose to her feet and left. He waited a few minutes before he opened his eyes fully.
A quick inspection revealed that he was in a crudely built camp with only a blanket beneath him. He gingerly sat up and shifted his leg to test its strength. The salve had helped, reducing the sharp pain to a dull ache. When he attempted to rise, however, he immediately fell back on the blanket. Growling in frustration, he tried again, only to fall back once more, panting. He was still too weak. He would have to wait.
Patience wasn’t his strong suit, but he had no choice. He needed to build his strength before he could get the hell out of here.
Had he exercised patience, perhaps he wouldn’t have found himself in this uncertain position. He could only hope his sixty grenadier soldiers had not been caught by the surprise blast. He’d ridden ahead of his men as they made their way north to join General Burgoyne’s camp, under General Henry Clinton’s command. Burgoyne’s campaign toward Albany was being forestalled and the general had requested immediate assistance in Saratoga to continue on. However, with the majority of the British regiment still in Philadelphia with General Howe, Burgoyne’s plan to take over Albany was ambitious to say the least. James had suggested as much but under General Henry Clinton’s command, he had been ordered to ride to Saratoga with his small cavalry of elite assault troops in aid of Burgoyne. But that had been days, perhaps even weeks, since he and his specialized guards had sortied from New York Island, where last he remembered Clinton had been restricted with his own limited reinforcements. They had been close to their destination north, about two days’ ride to Albany—or four days to Saratoga if they rode directly.
James needed to know what had happened to his men. His loyalty to them was what kept him fighting in this irrational war. Duty forced him to stay and serve the Crown, but it was his commitment to his troops that demanded he not leave them behind. He’d already failed his brother—he wasn’t prepared to fail them too.
Unless the path had been compromised, they would have ridden on. If that had not been possible, Thomas, his second-in-command, would have directed the group to rejoin Clinton. Either way, James would soon need to make his move and continue north.
For now, however, he would wait.
And so he did.
For the next three days, he waited and bided his time until he achieved a stronger command over his body.
The woman continued to tend to him and he learned her schedule. While she was away, he would rise and work on regaining authority over his weak limbs. He was limited in how much he could do, but with each passing moment, he built back the strength in his weak muscles.
When she came near, he would pretend sleep, though it wouldn’t be something he would be able to continue much longer. With every touch, every caress, he had to fight with his body to keep from responding.
Her touch was a guilty pleasure he looked forward to each day. And at night…at night, he would lie exhausted on the rough blanket and dream of her.
Chapter 2
It was to Siara’s dismay that she learned she was to leave the village in two days’ time.
Chief Oskanondonha was arranging a relief party to travel further east to aid the Colonists and help tend to the wounded. Each clan was required to provide people and resources and Etu had volunteered her to go.
“Etu, I can’t leave him,” Siara whispered earnestly, keeping her voice low so others in the longhouse wouldn’t hear. “Not yet. You know that.”
Etu grabbed her arm and dug her fingers into her. Siara winced.
“You are becoming foolish with this stranger,” she rasped in frustration. “Others are beginning to notice you missing throughout the day. Do you know Akando came by the longhouse, and I couldn’t account for your whereabouts?”